I went to Brooklyn tonight. Stood on a rooftop with the gentle late-summer breeze ruffling my hair, taking in what was quite possibly the most stunning view I’ve seen since moving to New York. The lights stretched from La Guardia’s air traffic control tower in Queens, all the way past the Chrysler and Empire State, down through the Battery and across the Brooklyn Bridge. I left the party as my eyes grew heavy, and went and stood in the sticky hot subway station waiting for the train to come.
Brooklyn is wonderful, I thought. More and more people flooded the platform, and everyone was creative and interesting and glowing with youth and excitement and late-summer heat. The man with the guitar had a tambourine around one ankle and a ring of homemade wooden bells on the other, and he strummed and stomped along to “Hotel California” and “Brown-Eyed Girl” as the crowd grew denser. 45 minutes later my feet were hurting, still no train, and the station was closing. We all rose to the sidewalk, spreading in clusters to street corners to fight for taxis, or to line up for the shuttle. I walked blocks and blocks and blocks and finally flagged down an off-duty cab.
“Are you available?” I asked. He nodded. “You going into the city?” He nodded again. I got in, feet weary, ready for sleep. “You’re my hero,” I sighed.
“And you are my heroine,” he replied.
New York is wonderful.